


A Study in Flair

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: ...maybe at a push, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry Hart, Clothing, Clothing Kink, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hair, Hair Kink, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Service Top, Shameless Smut, Smut, just a lot of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: “What the fuck have you come as?”It’s not exactly the reunion either of them are expecting but to be fair to him, Eggsy hasn’t seen Harry for almost three months and he has to say something to interrupt the natural response that would be bursting into tears of relief otherwise. That ain’t sexy, is it, and first and foremost as they stand regarding each other across the tarmac he’d like Harry to remember what he’s coming home to.Eggsy's learned a lot of things from Harry Hart - how to rock a linen suit not included - and his first night home is a great opportunity to show them off.





	A Study in Flair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> For DeepDarkWaters ... your prompts gave me an infuriatingly huge amount of scope, and my enduring hope is that all the bits I cut from the 83 working docs of this make their appearances in other fics in due course. Writing for someone I admire to this extent has been nerve wracking and I don't think I'll ever be entirely satisfied with my offering, but please have it in thanks for your incredible work in this fandom.

A Study in Flair

 

“What the fuck have you come as?”

It’s not  _ exactly  _ the reunion either of them are expecting but to be fair to him, Eggsy hasn’t seen Harry for almost three months and he has to say something to interrupt the natural response that would be bursting into tears of relief otherwise. That ain’t sexy, is it, and first and foremost as they stand regarding each other across the tarmac he’d like Harry to remember what he’s coming home to.

And Harry’s appearance isn’t what anyone was expecting, either. Well, it’s not what Eggsy was expecting. Merlin, presumably -  having been handling him through this mission - knew exactly the state he’d be coming home in and, given that he is at least unharmed, kept it from Eggsy either because it was irrelevant or for his own amusement. Eggsy hasn’t even got his comms connected and he can hear Merlin laughing at the look on his face.

During his ten weeks in Monaco undercover -  _ as what for fuck’s sake? A member of an eighties boyband? -  _ Harry’s hair has grown out of its usually immaculately maintained trim and curls down about his ears in loose waves, fluffy from the jet’s power shower, lighter than Eggsy’s used to seeing it from weeks in the sun and without any product to make it shine darker. He looks like… Eggsy doesn’t know what he looks like. Something out of an Edwardian costume drama.  Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing, more like, because he’s wearing a sleeveless black gym vest which is somehow working for him despite sitting a little narrow on his shoulders, showing off the bronzed gleam of his deltoids. It takes ten years off him - partly because he’s not wearing his glasses, partly because the sun highlighting blends the touches of grey back into his hair, and in some degree because his posture is loose, relaxed, suspiciously like his trip has been heavier on the drinking cocktails by pools in the name of reconnaissance than anything actually taxing. 

Eggsy strides into Harry’s arms and buries his face into his neck, to smell warmth and life and the generic soap they stock the bathrooms with. “God, it’s good to see you. You look fucking ridiculous.” He pulls it off though, … and yeah, Eggsy will pull it off for him, blah blah, the punchlines ain’t even worth the breath at this point.  Eggsy feels the thick brushed cotton of the vest and realises why it’s so familiar, why it doesn’t fit. “Is this… this is mine ain’t it?”

“It was left in the bag and I-“

Eggsy silences him with the kiss that would have been the greeting had Harry’s appearance not totally thrown him. Much like every time, it feels like it should be sweet and romantic until their tongues touch and then it’s hungry, deep and wet with weeks of wanting, and they’re all so fucking grateful to complete a mission successfully without a single significant injury to their own people that nobody even pointedly coughs at them or tells them to get a room when they start snogging right there in the hangar doorway.

**

Eggsy watches the first deluge of water flatten the curve of Harry’s hair but basically run off without really wetting it, splashing over the side of the bathtub and trickling down Eggsy’s chest between them. The second manages to penetrate the thick wave enough to actually soak it so he quickly follows it with another before setting the jug down in favour of the shampoo. This is like some sort of weird dexterity challenge, like the Krypton Factor, and Eggsy is winning.

“Yes, this is what I needed.” Harry rests back against Eggsy’s chest, his knees settling out against the edges of the bathtub as Eggsy massages his scalp with his fingertips, which is bloody awkward at this angle but Eggsy doesn’t begrudge it for a second and fortunately their bath is too wide for him to knock his elbows. It’s a great big custom built thing, made to be able to accommodate Harry’s legs and, Eggsy thinks, to comfortably fit two as much as Harry will deny being so wistful at the time of design. 

Eggsy isn’t always the big spoon when they have their traditional post-mission shared bath, or in fact in any sense, but he likes it. It’s good to look after Harry when he’s decompressing from a couple of months of constant work-mode - how much actual work he’s done is debatable, but Eggsy can wind him up about that later - and it’s even better to get his hands all over him, to wrap around him and hold him so completely without Harry realising quite how thoroughly he’s being inspected. There’s nothing to take stock of, no scars or wounds unless you count a bruise on his thigh which looks exactly the type you pick up walking into the corners of furniture navigating unfamiliar rooms when you’ve had a few: the only difference is a gentle tan and the massive hair.

It’s sort of fascinating, how difficult it is to squeeze the soap lather out of Harry’s hair when it’s this long… now it’s wet and the curls are weighed out, Eggsy can almost get enough in his hand to tie it back in a ponytail. What he wouldn’t give, at this moment, for one of them little sparkly hair bobbles Daisy’s always got millions of until you need one. He puts the jug down and picks up the conditioner, holding it forward in front of them so that Harry can confirm it’s the right one - with Harry’s hair products, you can never fucking tell -  but he nods.

“You’re going to need about half the bottle, believe me.”

He ain’t lying, either. The thick cream just seems to disappear into the mass of Harry’s hair and Eggsy squeezes more out into his palm twice to get it properly coated, combing his slippery fingers through to make sure he gets it all, because  _ fuck _ does Harry have a lot of hair. Chance would be a fine thing, to have his problems.

“You’re so lucky. I’m gonna be bald as Merlin by the time I’m forty."

“You’d be stunning.” Harry’s got his eyes shut, his head tipped back in quiet enjoyment of this ritual of recuperation and celebration, but he comes back to reality for a moment to look at Eggsy’s distorted reflection in the gleam of the taps.  “Those eyes. That jawline.” He smiles, shuts his eyes again and sighs. “Like the world’s most beautiful football hooligan.” 

Eggsy flicks him with water, but he knows the compliment is genuine. He was, after all, the only witness to how Harry responded when he took the wrong bag to the gym and came home in Lynx bodyspray and his Millwall shirt which, alright, might have been pretty standard once upon a time but wasn’t how Harry was used to seeing him; wasn’t how he was used to seeing himself by that point.

He’d been in a bad mood even before that, then he’d got the bus home because it was pissing it down and sulked about it all the way, catapulted momentarily back to a life he’d flown out of so quickly - by the grace of Harry and a lot of luck - that it was like it had never happened sometimes, and he was still the same person, after all. What was Harry going to think, seeing him like that? Might he look at him and be equally reminded of the chronic disappointment he’d narrowly avoided? 

His surly snap of “ _ what you looking at _ ” when Harry had gawped at him on the doorstep probably hadn’t done much for that cause at all.

The mistake, of course, was thinking that stare would be anything but raw appreciation. Harry still swears he doesn’t have any sort of class-related kink but Eggsy is yet to see him back that up. He certainly didn’t get any evidence that day, with Harry dragging him into the house by the worn polyester of his top, and if Eggsy didn’t know any better he’d think Harry had slammed the door back a little sharply just to be sure the neighbours were looking.

As in, in hindsight, he knows that’s exactly what happened. 

“ _ I’ve never wanted to be accosted in an alleyway so badly in my life _ ,” Harry had murmured at him, dark and low and happily shocked rather than trying to pretend he wasn’t staring, or pretend Eggsy didn’t look every bit as rough as he felt. He might as well have tucked his trousers into his socks. Might as well have completed the look with an ankle tag, though given Harry’s reaction he wished he actually  _ had. _

“ _ I’ll accost your fucking alleyway,”  _ he’d managed the humour to grouse and Harry had just rumbled ‘ _ please’ _ against his mouth and that had been that, emphatically, roughly, right there in the hallway. 

For his part, Harry also seems to be reliving his youth to some extent: Eggsy’s seen all the pictures of him when he was Eggsy’s age, in his linen suits with his mad fucking sky high hair. He didn’t really get the fashion but whatever, Harry had still looked pretty as shit and it still suits him without the six inches of Ellnet. Moreso if anything, streaks of grey just sparkling between Eggsy’s fingers as he strokes, and he finds he’s really enjoying that. It’s been a long time since he was with someone with hair long enough to really play with like this, twiddling the ends into curls around his knuckles. 

“You gonna keep it long for a bit, yeah?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” It makes sense, it doesn’t exactly go with his whole look these days but it’s obvious in his hesitation that Harry has thought about it, however briefly, and he sits up slightly.  “Do you… like it?” 

Something’s happened: something’s shifted. Eggsy doesn’t know if it’s being looked after that makes Harry meeker, somehow, or if that’s a symptom of him wanting to hand over the reins but that soft, tentative tone makes it sound like he’d cut or grow his hair on Eggsy’s whim, just to please him, just to get Eggsy to keep taking care of him. It’s not all he’ll do, either, if he’s true to form.

And yeah, Eggsy can get behind that. He finds himself preening, growing into Harry’s expectations just like he always has, straightening out and stepping up: just like he wanted to help Harry get cleaned and relaxed, now it’s Eggsy’s job to fuck him right and put him to bed for a good night’s sleep and tomorrow, when he’s pristine in his flawless suit with his hair slicked back, nobody will be any the wiser. 

“It’s nice. Means I can do this.” Eggsy runs his fingers through Harry’s hair with more purpose now, nails just dragging on his scalp, and grabs a handful to duck him backwards to kiss him. Harry goes so pliantly, so happily that Eggsy knows it’s exactly what he was hoping for: he wants to get put through his paces, and as it happens the thought of taking him in hand, reclaiming the hold time and distance always threatens to weaken with a little bit of force is close to the top of the pile of Eggsy’s fantasies too.

So he doesn’t let go, and the breath Harry sighs out stutters like he’s been crying.

“You alright babes?”

“Mmhmm.” That’s not a crying sigh, that’s a horny sigh, and under the water, Eggsy can suddenly feel his pulse thud in his dick. 

See, back in the day, a welcome home safe from a mission meant banging against the nearest reasonable surface behind the first closed door. Near misses still bring that desperation out but he’s grown and usually they manage this now: home, food, bath, clean sheets that only ever stay on for one night once they’ve waited so patiently to mess them up. But n o amount of knowing it’s worth the wait alters the fact that Eggsy has only had his own hand for company for eleven weeks and four days - not that he’s counted, not that he has very specifically reminded Merlin of this every day past the ten weeks he was estimated - and now they’re naked and close and his body has bought a clue, and Harry’s breathless, eager responses to these simple touches remind him he isn’t the only one who might have been looking forward to this for a while. 

In that sense he’s teasing them both when he keeps scraping his wet nails over Harry’s head and dragging them through his hair: checking all the soap’s out, first, because it ain’t worth the grief and then pulling it tight in his fist, using the grip to urge Harry up and back against Eggsy’s chest again, close enough to his ear to answer Harry’s surprised moan with a low “You like that?”

The rush of breath is more of an answer than an answer would ever be. 

“Out you get then. Before my knob goes wrinkly.”

“Heaven forbid,” murmurs Harry without even offering to kiss it better, but he does haul himself out of the water , which makes it far easier for Eggsy to do the same, and Eggsy resists both the urge to mount and the urge to vocalise the little  _ mm-mm-mm _ noise his brain makes when Harry bends forward to hook the plug out of the bathtub.  All of that is his.  

And it’s going nowhere fast. Too busy paddling and kissing up Eggsy's shoulder.

“Come on. Now, don’t make me drag you…”  Eggsy feels Harry’s dirty little chuckle against his mouth and backs away himself or they’re going to get stuck kissing again, up to their shins in draining bathwater, and Harry does nothing until Eggsy uses his hand between Harry’s shoulders for a little pull, and then he understands.

“Or do you want that? Yeah? Want me to show you where I want you?”

Harry says nothing still, but meets Eggsy’s eyes - that glimmering rich brown almost amber with mirth and heat - and sinks to his knees right there in the curl of his dropped towel.

“...Think that’s where  _ you  _ want you.”

And Harry doesn’t argue. He always goes quiet when they’re like this, as though if he speaks he might burst the bubble, remind Eggsy who it is he’s got his hands on. Apparently in his head he’s going over how he’s not worthy of  _ Eggsy  _ and he’s right, If he says that out loud Eggsy will laugh him out of the room but he can play the part.

“Was it not worth a try?” Harry speaks at last, between kissing up the line of Eggsy’s hipbone like he knows he’s got to wait for permission, and Eggsy reads that, smooths his hair away from his face, and holds him a breath away from where they both want him. Disinhibited by sex, the same nonsense-genius comes to Eggsy as when he’s drunk, and he  _ knows _ .  

“Ah-ah-ah,” Eggsy chides, managing to smirk down at Harry whilst his pulse hammers in his still stiffening cock, whilst nerves flutter under his sternum. It’s a winners game, this, because he gets to come off all dominant and bossy  _ and _ he gets to choose his own pace, so he can have a little bit of what he wants without the risk that it’ll all be over when it’s barely got started. He’s in control here. It will be fine. “What do you say?”

Harry smiles at him, soft and lost and heavy-eyed: “Please, may I?”

Eggsy is in control of fuck all.

He’s still learning to cope with that tone, with the reverence that sounds like it should have  _ sir _ on the end without a hint of sarcasm, the idea that anybody on earth could want him quite as fiercely as he knows full well Harry does. Instead of answering, he grabs hold of the back of Harry's head and shoves his cock in his mouth.

Oh, and it's good. Harry’s tongue is the slippery sort of wet Eggsy can feel even though he’s not air dried from the bath yet, eager and wonderful on his aching prick. He still doesn’t feel as put together as he’d like to be, but with his hand in Harry’s hair at least he knows he can set the pace, pull him away if it gets too much and look like he’s just teasing, not tapping out, although Harry almost definitely knows. For the moment he just enjoys stroking through it, the strands tacky against the sensitive sides of his fingers as it dries, just petting Harry as he goes down on him.

It’s lovely alright - lovely enough to make Eggsy want to drop his head back and just carry on, forget about the mood he was going for - but it’s not what Harry needs, so he changes his soft stroking for a steady press on the top of Harry’s head that holds him still whilst Eggsy tilts his hips to shove fully into Harry’s throat at last. Only until he meets resistance, and even that is met with a nice muffled groan from Harry that soothes the guilt before it can touch him. He knows Harry can take more, that Eggsy at full force will barely make his eyes water and that he’ll want that.

Eggsy resists the urge to warn him before he grabs a hold on the back of Harry’s head and pushes.

“All the way down, that’s it.”

Harry makes a whimpering sort of noise; Eggsy sees him close his eyes and knows that's bliss rather than strain, and sure enough then Harry’s hand goes down to his own cock, shameless in his enjoyment of getting his face fucked. It’s not like he needs to see to himself: Eggsy’s not the sort of guy who’ll let Harry suck him off and then roll over and go to sleep, thanks. Well, except maybe on the specific occasions he’s told Harry he’s too fucking tired to play however much he might want to and Harry’s begged  him -  _ begged _ him...  _ please let me, darling, just to relax you, to make you happy. I don’t want anything else, I don’t even mind if you fall asleep.... _

So he can work a little harder for it, right?

Eggsy eases up and lets him back off, not because Harry needs to breathe more than he needs cock - not by the look on his face, that’s for sure - but because the facsimile made from his hand actually feels better and Eggsy allows himself a couple of mindless, brilliant seconds of fucking into the slick, tight channel of Harry’s fist, the back of his throat hot and wet against the tip; pleasure and promise sparkle at once, the whole glorious spectrum of impending orgasm laid out before Eggsy like a sunset he just wants to run off into, but he makes himself slow them to a stop and the noise Harry makes at being taken away from his favourite toy is plenty of reward. That’s enough of that.

Eggsy’s never had an en suite before and the lovely thing is you don’t have to be like,  _ come to bed  _ and hope somehow you sound seductive and not as stupid as you feel. You can just yank Harry up with one hand under his arm, kiss and keep kissing as you stumble out of the bathroom door and hit the bed, pull Harry against you and flip him onto his back… not like he wouldn’t have gone on his own, but he appreciates the manhandling, it keeps him hot and docile, fully buying into the weak yarn of  _ I’m in charge _ Eggsy’s spinning him.  Eggsy kisses him wild, holds Harry’s wrists into the bed either side of his head as though he’s holding him down, his weight spreading Harry’s legs and just suggesting power. It’s got no teeth but at least with Eggsy Harry will know there would actually be a decent fight to get free if he didn’t want to be exactly where he was, and they enjoy that little tussle: a fight played out in writhing and scrapes of teeth; in dirty laughter and Eggsy putting pressure down on Harry’s wrists and his shins like he’s pinned him for real. There’s a reason they’re not allowed to spar at work. 

Satisfied that Harry knows his place tonight for at least a couple of minutes, Eggsy leaves him on his back, pointedly walks around to the drawer and gets the fancy lube, the holy grail of slickness: oil based, which means they go bare, slippery thick and heavenly.

Harry just has to see him with it to groan and flop back into the pillows, offering.

This is the moment imposter syndrome kicks in, usually, because he does know Harry’s body literally inside and out by now, but never quite feels like he had the right to. Nonetheless, Eggsy kneels on the bed and pulls Harry’s legs over his lap, and sets about working his fingers into him as patiently, as teasingly as his own body will let him.  

He knows not to rush. If anything, his rule of thumb is to use two fingers to stroke and stretch rather than adding a third, to take as long as he feels like he needs to, double it and then keep going, until Harry is pink in the face and his eyelashes look wet against his flushed cheeks; until his breath is hitching and he’s biting his lip with the effort not to ask for more because he doesn’t know what he wants, in this state. He wants everything. Eggsy savours the sight of him laying spread out for a moment, gives one last firm rub against Harry’s prostate before he slides his fingers out and Harry looks up at him like he expects him to perform magic.  _ For my next trick, I will make my cock disappear up this man’s arse. _

Sometimes he’ll ask what Harry feels like, sometimes Harry would ask how Eggsy wants him but in this mood Eggsy just has to put the barest pressure on Harry’s arm for him to flip over on the bed and assume the position, beautifully, with his head on his forearms and his knees spread and his back bowed to present his lovingly teased-open hole without shame.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Harry.” Eggsy’s prick twitches hard enough to tap against the skin under his navel and he knows, in that moment, that he will not last long enough for the spectacular finish Harry deserves if he forges ahead now. Fortunately, he has no intention.  “You stay just like that, yeah?”

Eggsy’s already down on his elbows between Harry’s legs by the time he gets a murmur in response - it doesn’t matter what it is Harry’s failing to say into the pillows, it’s not like Eggsy’s expecting an argument. He rubs his cheek against the inside of Harry’s thigh, letting him feel the tiny bit of stubble, and kisses his way up to the path of lubricant his fingers have left.  No lie, the expensive lube actually tastes like it’s supposed to - vanilla and cinnamon - and not calpol or spent chewing gum, and Eggsy could eat it by the spoonful. It’s got a thick but not stickiness to it, warm on the tip of the tongue like toffee sauce; he doesn’t know if it’s meant to try to persuade someone who doesn’t want to go down or what but that isn’t a problem anyway, and fresh-out-of-the-bath Harry does not exactly need coating in dessert topping to tempt Eggsy to get his face in. Not when he makes  _ that _ noise for the first wet touch of Eggsy’s tongue. And  _ that _ one for the feel of his whole face nuzzling to get closer and breathe hot over his hole. 

This, he has learned, too: all from Harry. To tease with tender lips and the tip of his tongue; to prod and lick lightly before pressing deeper; quick little laps of his tongue until none of the flavour of the lube is left, until Harry’s heavy breathing has become shaky groans and Eggsy can give up being quite so precise and just enjoy himself. Harry’s starting to twitch. He’s getting almost close enough to move on but now Eggsy’s in no rush, just rolling his tongue roughly against Harry’s hole now to get him really sloppy and remind him who’s in charge. 

 

“Eggsy, please.” Eggsy gives him the pause. For a moment he thinks Harry’s going to ask him to just carry on with this and hang the fuck - and don’t get him wrong, he’d do that no matter how badly he wants to get his dick wet - but that’s not what he says. What he says, in classically melodramatic but unusually coherent fashion, is “If you don’t pack that in and fuck me, I’m going to die.”

"Alright, fucking drama queen."

Eggsy rarely needs asking twice but he does take it slow, climbing up and lining up at his own sweet pace and Harry still thinks he’s teasing, thinks Eggsy’s stamina is some miraculous thing rather than an elaborate smoke and mirrors routine that means he’s actually inside Harry’s arse as late in the game as he can get away with. See,  Harry thinks Eggsy’s got a knack for the fabled simultaneous orgasm, but in fact Eggsy’s just realistic about the fact he’s on a countdown from next to nothing once he’s got the heat of Harry’s body pulsing around him, and  if Harry gets on top and rides him you can halve that, because nothing gets Eggsy going like Harry using his cock for pleasure. If he tries it Eggsy’s go to technique is to allow him a moment or two before he flips them over and bangs him, which Harry loves because he loves that momentary feeling of being overpowered, and that’s great because then neither of them last five minutes and Eggsy ends up with the credit.

Hence, he keeps Harry held face down and whispers to him about how he’s going to get it whilst he sinks in, prickles of pleasure bursting out across Eggsy's shoulders and down his back as the tip of his cock spreads the tight, wet ring of muscle and pushes in; he has to still and drop his forehead onto the back of Harry’s shoulder and just breathe.  _Breathe._

Harry wriggles and shifts, trying to get some sort of motion started, but Eggsy presses him down and holds him still, which has the happy side effect of making Harry shiver. 

“Give me a minute, or you're getting fuck all.”

Harry scoffs.   “Anyone would think you’d been without for months.”

It's the softest tease, although… 

“Do me a favour and don’t make me think about it if you haven’t, yeah?”

“Absolutely untouched,” trills Harry happily, immediately, almost deliriously, and really it would be a bit late to worry about it anyway.  “Well, I had a fairly brutal massage a week or so ago, If that counts...”

“Knowing you it probably does.” That snaps Eggsy back into focus and he shoves himself deep, hips flush to Harry's, getting a good hold so he can yank Harry’s head back by his hair just to make his point, which it must because Harry makes a noise at it like he remembers he shouldn’t moan half way through. 

Eggsy doesn’t mind that at all. Harry can scream the place down as far as he’s concerned: the tables still need leveling out from that time they twigged Eggsy could come just from being fingered, when Harry had milked him fucking senseless and they’d been in the kitchen, mostly naked, raiding the fridge for between-rounds snacks and water when a pair of stern and underpaid Community Support Officers had knocked to follow up a call about a “domestic disturbance”.

Eggsy snorts a little laugh to himself before a deep breath in. He slides his hand down Harry’s back and back up straight into his hair again, taking up a proper grip whilst he starts to rock his hips, just a couple of quick shifts before he gets right into it. He knows he’s being rough but it feels so good just to get a handhold and ride, he knows what Harry can take, and Harry is always telling him to stop worrying about it and just fuck him like he means it.

“That too hard?” Harry mumbles the negative. “That hard enough?” The same sound. “I’m scared I’ll hurt you.”

Harry’s low chuckle confirms that hurting him is absolutely not a problem Eggsy needs to be worried about at this point, and belatedly he realises that he didn’t make it clear whether he meant his grip or the fucking, but if the answer’s such an emphatic no, does it matter? 

Eggsy gives in to his own drive, falling into quick sharp thrusts hard enough to bruise Harry’s arse on his hipbones but there’ll be no other pain; he feels tight and hot but slick and easy, taking it like he was built for it, bespoke fit, custom made for Eggsy to fuck.

He’d love that. 

“You feel so fucking good.” 

Harry gasps, like the words are a physical touch, ripping back into Eggsy’s grip with his eyes closed. 

“So good. Fuck, I’ve missed this.”  Not missed  _ you _ , because that’s for other moments with kisses and softness, later, when Eggsy will be tucking Harry’s hair behind his ears to look into his eyes rather than yanking handfuls of it to move him around whilst he fucks him. He pulls and pulls until Harry moans properly, and it feels like cheating to hurt that noise out of him rather than tease it out in pure pleasure but it also sends heat searing down Eggsy’s spine and it feels so good he has to ease off and do it again. Harry  _wails,_ but it still doesn't sound like a bad thing.  “You sure that ain’t too much?”

“More. Please.”

Eggsy keeps a firm handhold and uses it to haul Harry backwards, to pull them both back until Eggsy’s sitting on his heels, Harry’s back against his chest, bouncing Harry on his cock, and doesn’t let go.  His other hand comes up to clutch Harry’s body to him with a hand on his chest, hugging him close whilst he fucks up into him, and catches him in a messy side-on kiss that Harry only half participates in because he’s too busy murmuring something containing the words  _ jesus _ and  _ fuck _ and  _ Eggsy _ and  _ please, fuck, please. _

Not with all the weaponry in their stores, not with the entire world’s fate at his feet has Eggsy ever felt so powerful. Harry  _ is _ a weapon, flawless and brutal, as lethal with his bare hands as a Kalashnikov and Eggsy has him helpless now, weak with need and pleasure in his lap, his cock rigid and shining and straining for touch. Harry’s mouth is slack around a prayer. 

“You ready, yeah?”

“Yes.  _ Oh god, yes. _ ”

And Eggsy’s a better gent than to deny Harry anything when he asks so politely, so desperately, and his absolute faith in Eggsy’s mastery of his body is a heady drug.  Eggsy won’t let him down. He  works Harry up to frenzy between his hands: one clenched against his scalp around a fistful of his hair, the other sloppily jerking his dick. Harry’s own hands are free, purposeless: one comes up to grab at Eggsy’s forearm and just holds on for dear fucking life as Eggsy hammers up into him, and thank fuck Harry’s as close as he felt like he was because it’s a hell of a work out, but it’s only for a moment or two until Harry’s shoulders push hard back against Eggsy’s chest as his back bows, a high moan twisting out of his throat that gets higher as Eggsy chances a final pull on Harry’s hair.

Harry comes hard in thick stripes up his own chest and over Eggsy’s hand, falling back heavily against Eggsy’s body. He pants for breath with his eyes closed, a  beautifully sated deadweight.

Relieved of the duty of responsibility, Eggsy’s whole body thrums with the urgency of his need to come, held back with sheer willpower and concentration. Still bouncing, and grunting with the effort of that now, he puts his hand to Harry’s face, the heel of his thumb into his mouth to clean, a nd then it all goes to hell in one beautiful cascade of pleasure: Harry whimpering into the cup of Eggsy’s hand, licking his own spunk off Eggsy’s fingers, and tensing up where he’s trying so hard to just take it whilst Eggsy finishes… Eggsy is fireworks, he’s made of bliss, momentarily blinded to all sense by the fireball flash of his orgasm.

There follow a few peaceful minutes of lying where they fall, more or less,  waiting for breathing and twitching and those lovely little pulses of aftershock to run their course, to return them to the real world. It sounds like madness even in his own head but Eggsy has to wonder what's next on the menu after that little romp, because he knows that won't be it.   It’s never ‘just sex' with Harry, even when they’re trying: they’ve had quick fumbles to take the edge off, sure, but these reunion fucks in particular tend to mean taking their time, they’re legitimate lovemaking until they’re completely spent whether that takes one round or four; until they’re shaking and wet with sweat, the sun’s coming up and Eggsy’s coming dry, running on empty. He’d thought ‘satisfied’ was just posh speak for having busted your nut until it was something he’d felt in his soul and his bones, the perfection of your body giving up that very last shudder of pleasure, wrung to the last drop, when you can touch and stare into the eyes of someone you love that much, you want that much, and you’ve actually had  _ enough.  _

What he hasn’t had enough of is dinner, and if this is going to turn into the marathon effort it feels like it might - and why not, they’ve got a few days to sleep it off  - he needs the rest of his pizza, and Harry should get some food and fluids down him after that little performance but he won’t come downstairs without clothes on, not after the police incident.

Slinging on trackie bottoms and his dressing gown for the same reason, Eggsy looks at the work out vest Harry came home in, discarded on the floor leading to the bathroom, and hands him a sort of folded, sort of balled up grey crew neck from the top of the clean laundry pile. He doesn’t tell him why but Harry takes it anyway, raises it as if to feel it against his face but Eggsy knows he’s having a cheeky sniff really. It won’t get him anywhere because it’s just come out of the wash, so all it will smell of is fabric softener but Eggsy’s bottle of Armani is right there on the dresser so there’s absolutely nothing to stop him if that’s what he wants.   

Harry pulls it on and pairs it with the plaid pajama bottoms which had been under his pillow but worked their way off the edge of the bed somewhere in the last half an hour, unsurprisingly.  It sits high enough to bare his hipbones and a strip of flat belly, and it’s too short in the arms so Harry has to drag the sleeves up so that the cuffs sit just below his elbow. He ties the drawstrings of the bottoms - so he’s lost weight, too: further evidence he needs to help Eggsy finish the pizza, though knowing Harry he'll say it's done him a favour.

Harry tosses his head regally, his sex-fucked hair swooshing all over the shop.

“How do I look?”

“Like you fell out a time machine bollock-naked and had to borrow your boyfriend’s clothes, and then got cast in a Loreal advert.” Eggsy wants to tell him he looks beautiful, regal almost, but he also looks pretty fucking daft. That's the paradox of Harry Hart a lot of the time: he's utterly beyond mockery and it's impossible to tell whether he's trying.

Harry pushes his hand back through his hair in suddenly sober thought. 

“I’ve actually got a horrid feeling my boyfriend was in babygrows the last time I had my hair this long.”

“See, you say horrid but your face says you love it.” 

Harry’s grin is so slow it’s almost intimidating, and somehow that makes a curl of heat twist around Eggsy’s lower body. Eggsy looks where he’s looking: down at his own thick maroon dressing gown, the loafer-style slippers he’s got one foot in because the parquet downstairs is colder than the carpet upstairs, and then he gets it.

“Well, I’ve been dressing you as me for years now, it seems only fair.”

Eggsy can't really argue with that, and if he looks half as good as Harry does in the process, he ain't complaining.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Things are tough right now and writing's not easy so please do take the time to let me know if you enjoyed. I'm @agetsnakebite on twitter, it's a private account but ping me a request and I'll accept. Much love!


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